


Compromising Oxygen

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't think of anything he wouldn't take over this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromising Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch-hit for snowpuppies for springfling 2013! glovered woke up at terrible o'clock to tell me it needed writing and then beta'd it through the day because she is a perfect human being ♥

Sam picks up odd, antiquated little phrases like they're hats. On Monday the milk went sour and Dad forgot to pick them up from the store and it was raining, Sam's sneakers squelched the whole walk home, and all of it happened with a _God's truth, Dean_. A bit later there was a _God's truth, Dean, fuck me like you mean it_ , and a _you're so good at that._

Dean can't think of anything he wouldn't take over this.

"Sammy," he says, trying to think and doing badly at it. "We couldn't have kept on doing it even if – he hadn't –"

Sam is leaning against the back door. It's sunny outside, which is dumb as fuck when the whole world is going to shit. Dean thinks, with some confusion, that this is the last time he's going to be able to look at Sam like this, all long and lean and warm, behoodied and easy to push against a wall, if Dean wanted to, before it ends. He waits for Sam to say something.

"Why," says Sam. His eyes are on Dean. Mostly. Sam’s afraid, and he never deals with that well, he gets difficult. Argumentative. "Were you going to tell someone else?" 

Dean's stomach recoils. "No," he says. "But we were always going to get caught by someone." But why did it have to be _Dad_ , why like that, pressed together in Dean’s bed in the morning, right before he left his boys alone for the day. Sam at school and Dean to slope around this week’s house, sick with terror. 

"I don't think so," Sam says. "We're careful, we've never let anyone see – "

"And Dad still did," Dean interrupts. Probably. Dad probably saw. Christ. 

Sam's face is a sick white colour and John's going to be home from work in an hour, maybe sooner. Dean doesn’t know what to do about that. He's spent the whole day watching clocks, as scared as he hasn't been since he was younger than Sam. 

John will be furious. Worse. He'll have spent all day thinking about it and getting angrier.

"Dean?"

Dean digs his nails into his palms again, not letting himself turn away while Sam looks like that. He wants to go outside and vomit on the grass, or sit on the steps and put his head between his legs and stare at his feet, and he can't do either. "We can't," he says.

"We're not hurting anyone," says Sam, as if arguing will change anyone’s mind. "It's nothing to do with them. You don't even know that Dad - that he realised."

"We don't know that he didn't, either," Dean snaps. His stomach twists again. He wonders if John will give him a chance to leave before beating him to a pulp. "You’re my brother, not my prom date.”

"Yeah, I know," says Sam impatiently, and then he realises his mistake and looks away. He repeats himself, slower, like he gets it.

Yesterday, Dean fucked his brother in the shower. Legs braced on either side of Sam's, one hand on the wall and the other wrapped around Sam's body, fucking him slow as he could and stripping his cock like it was a mission from God. Which, as far as Dean was concerned, it practically was. Sam was making all those breathy little noises the whole time, like he always did, and then he was biting his lip on Dean's name tipping his head against the wall and both of them were coming, pretty damn pleased with themselves.

Before Dean could pull out, the water swilling tepid around their feet, Sam grabbed his wrist to hold him close and said, "Six," as if he had all his breath still. Dean was very sure that he didn't.

"I'm an eleven on bad days," Dean said. "Think again." 

"Seven, then," said Sam, leaning back into him. "For finishing before the water got cold."

Dean raised his eyebrows and swished his foot around a bit. There was too much hair in the plughole, all of it Sam's. "It did get cold," he said. He bit Sam's neck, very lightly.

"All right, then," said Sam. He smiled at the tile in front of them. Dean could hear it in his voice. "Six."

Sam thought he was cute. Dean rolled his eyes and then hauled them both out of the shower cubicle, scrubbed Sam all over with a rough towel and fucked him over the washbasin, and later picked a bunch of honeysuckle and stuck it in a glass in the middle of the dinner table. He poked around the attic while Sam was doing his homework, and came down with an ancient box of candles and lit one up next to the posy on the table. Sam blushed the whole way through his burger and ignored every one of Dean’s hints that it was a joke.

“Dude,” Dean said eventually, and then they were waking up together in the same bed, after sunrise as if John never taught them to be careful.

And now, "Brothers," Dean says again. 

Sam looks like he's going to cry. He's never going to get it.

"Sammy," Dean says. "Can't have it all."

"Why not," says Sam, barely audibly.

"Because." Because they've never had it all. They've never had anything. "Because he’s – our dad." 

All Dean wants to do is reach out and grab Sam's wrist. Pull him close. He looks at the the wall, the clock, back down at the floor.

"But," says Sam.

Any second, Dean thinks, Sam is going to let go of the doorframe, and then Dean will find out if he wants his brother or his family more. Sam is fifteen and Dean’s a high school dropout. He's saved Sam from a torturous death as often as he's fucked around with him and he still doesn't know the answer.

Sam lets go of the door. He takes a step towards Dean. They both ignore the sound of the car outside.

"Please," Dean tells the floor. "Don't make this harder."

Sam doesn't stop. "We don't know," he says. "We can be more careful. I'll stay in my bed, now. Just when Dad's on trips."

"It won't work," says Dean. His fingers are cramping. He releases them. Lifts his eyes to Sam's and takes a breath. "But – "

"Please," says Sam.

He's nearly begging it. Dean doesn’t know how to deny Sam when he sounds like this, and that's when he sees the back door swing wide.

Sam jerks away to an open cabinet on the other side of the kitchen and grabs a mug.

It hurts.

Dean says, "Dad," and waves.

"Son." John doesn't pause. He's got a full day's grime on him, nothing on the blood and guts they're usually stinking up the Impala with but he's been working in a potato field ever since he walked in on Sam and Dean in bed together at dawn, both too still and too quiet to be sleeping, close under the blankets. His jacket is ripped and something that's either ectoplasm or tar is dripping down his neck. 

John swipes his hand across the back of Sam's shoulders as he passes, nods at Dean without really looking at him. Not ectoplasm, then. "If you used up all the water without saving some for me, you're getting up when I do tomorrow," he says. He catches Dean's eye. He doesn't mean it. "And I'm up even earlier tomorrow."

Dean catches his breath. Finds his tongue. "No, sir."

John nods. "Good," he says, mouth curving up. "You boys enjoy your extra sleep."

He leaves without another word for either of them, but Sam is still on the other side of the room, and neither of them can look at each other.

"I want," begins Sam. He’s not really trying anymore.

"Yeah," says Dean. He risks a glance at Sam and regrets it at once. "Not happening."

Sam nods. "Night, then," he says. He doesn’t give Dean a chance to reply, and heads for the stairs.

"Yeah," says Dean after a moment, too late, and wonders when to go after him.


End file.
